


Straight Talking

by TheGoodDoctor



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Caring, Coming Out, Everyone is Bisexual, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 12:31:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11897796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: When Willow is ushered inside by a semi-frantic, rather alarmed Giles and pressed gently, but firmly, into the squishy armchair of dreams, a small part of her brain spares a moment for surprise.It might have something to do with the crying. Give Giles an apocalypse any day, but heaven forfend anybody cry in his presence.





	Straight Talking

There is an armchair in Giles’ home that has been sat on for many years now. It is entirely possible that the light brown leather is older than Willow, its cracks and flaws so long ingrained that imagining the chair without them is impossible. For example, the dark stain on the arm which spreads across the seat is now an important feature without which the chair would be incomplete. It brings so much character, makes it so much a part of what makes Giles  _ Giles _ that Willow knows, without even asking, that the stain is from age-old tea and that he had disturbed it whilst settling in to eat his dinner and watch trash on TV with which he would later deny any acquaintance. Willow can practically see him stand again suddenly, holding a full plate and near-empty mug as the scalding liquid seeps into his trousers and his chair, can practically hear his quiet cursing and running sarcastic commentary as Giles sulks around his home attempting damage control.

It is the most comfortable chair that Willow has ever, ever come across. For this reason, it is usually occupied by Giles; he’s very good about having anywhere between one and six young people in his house at all hours, especially with the nature of what the Scooby Gang actually do, but he’s not about to give up the very best of seating for them. There are limits.

So when Willow is ushered inside by a semi-frantic, rather alarmed Giles and pressed gently, but firmly, into the squishy armchair of dreams, a small part of her brain spares a moment for surprise.

It might have something to do with the crying. Give Giles an apocalypse any day, but heaven forfend anybody cry in his presence.

“Tea,” he says, hands held out as if to shield himself from the fear-inducing display of emotion before him, and jogs to the kitchen. Willow notices, absently, that he closes the front door on the way as she tries to get her breathing under control. She’s never liked the choking that accompanies her ugly sobbing.

A warm mug is pressed into her hands and she holds it tight with trembling fingers. Large, warm hands rub up and down her upper arms, the weight grounding her as she stares through her hair at the mug between her knees. Eventually Willow tunes back in enough to notice Giles murmuring softly and hushing her, and when she looks up at him he smiles at her hopefully; she shakily returns it and he relaxes slightly, rocking back to rest on his heels and knees. It doesn’t look comfortable, but he doesn’t look like he’s moving and she certainly doesn’t want him to.

Giles nods at her mug, hands still heavy on her shoulders, and she takes a small sip. It’s sweeter and milkier than even she usually drinks it, but the tea does make her feel a bit better and a bit less like bursting into tears again and burying her face in Giles’ scratchy wool jumper until the world goes away. A bit.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Giles says, quiet and soft and Willow knows that she can say no, and that it would make Giles worry about her possibly forever but that he wouldn’t push. The thought makes her want to cry again and it must show on her face because Giles’ own face crumples into more intense fearful worry. “You needn’t,” he says. “I can get Buffy…?”

Willow shakes her head. She  _ had  _ gone out to look for Buffy, but her feet had carried her here and upon arrival she had realised- “I want to talk to you.”

Giles looks relieved, then proud, then worried again. “I’m listening.”

Willow rubs her eye, pushing away tears that threatened to fall and further smudging her eyeliner. “I don’t think my parents were. Listening.” It’s not where she expected to start, and it’s clearly thrown Giles as well, but he just waits and when she opens her mouth the words flood out any which way. “I just wanted to talk to them, you know? Tell them. Have them take an interest in me and what I’m doing and who I am.” Willow drinks more of her tea and doesn’t look at Giles. It’s easier when she doesn’t, and need only be aware of his hands on her arms and not his face. “I mean, it’s not like it’s a bad thing! Is it? But apparently it’s a cry for help and I’m just doing it for attention and it’s only a phase but it doesn’t feel like a phase because it feels really real-” Willow scrubs at her eyes again and speaks into the heels of her palms. “They just didn’t listen to me.”

“No, it doesn’t sound like they did,” Giles sighs, soft and sad.

Willow peeps at him around her palms. Giles only looks sympathetic - and slightly out of his depth - and it occurs to her that, though he’s been listening, she’s not actually told him anything. “Do you know what I’m talking about?” she asks suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

He smiles sheepishly. “Haven’t the faintest idea. I was hoping you’d get to that bit in the end.”

Willow huffs a small laugh and stares into her mug as if it contains the secrets of the universe. Useful as that would be, she does think it unlikely - although, if anyone has cosmic knowledge brewing in their teapot, it would be Giles. “I’m not - I like girls.”

Giles’ confusion clears from his face and he relaxes. “Ah.”

Willow frowns. “No - I mean, I  _ like like _ girls. Like - I’m not straight, Giles.” He nods and smiles at her encouragingly. She’s cross then, suddenly. He doesn’t understand, he’s not listening - just like mom and dad. “I’m serious! I’m not normal, and it’s not a phase or - or anything! Stop - this is not a smiling thing! I’m not joking -  _ listen to me! _ ”

Two tears roll down her cheeks. Her chest heaves from shouting and the silence is more noticeable and oppressive. Giles has stopped smiling. Ever so gently, he takes the half-full mug out of her hands and places it on a coaster on the coffee table behind him. Willow misses the grounding that came with his large hands on her shoulders, but not for long. His careful fingers sweep red hair behind one ear, catching a tear with his thumb, and then he is kneeling up before her, cradling the back of her head to the crook of his neck with one hand and rubbing her back with the other. Willow sobs, fingers clenching and unclenching in his jumper like claws. Giles hushes her gently, murmuring soothing things into the air and resting his chin on her head. She half-expects it to be cloying and claustrophobic, as it so often is with her mother’s hugs, but instead feels safe like she has never felt before.

Willow stops crying after a while and expects Giles to pull away but is pleasantly surprised instead. Giles is a long-haul hugger, apparently. “So,” he says, and his voice rumbles in his chest against her cheek. “Are you crying about liking girls, or talking to your parents?”

“I don’t just like girls,” Willow protests, muffled by green wool. “I like boys too.”

Giles nods, and waits for the answer to his original question.

Willow sighs. “Sure you don’t want to respond to that instead?”

“I did,” Giles says mildly.

She pulls a face into his chest and waits for his hand to pass up and down her back three more times. “My parents.” Giles nods again. “They didn’t listen to me when they realised it wasn’t something they wanted to hear. It’s like - it’s like they don’t care about me, if it doesn’t fit their narrative for my life.”

“I’m sure they do,” Giles protests without much force. “It can be hard to manage expectations regarding children. Buffy, for instance, was not quite what I had anticipated.”

“Not what they train you to deal with?”

“Not exactly, no,” Giles says dryly, and Willow smiles. “You weren’t what I expected either, you know,” he adds conversationally. Willow pulls back to look at his face in confusion. He smiles down at her and continues. “Well, when I first met the schoolyard acquaintance of the Slayer, I must admit I did not see  _ this  _ coming.” He gestures between them, tightening his grip on Willow slightly when she pulls back in embarrassment. 

“Yeah, well. Mini-me didn’t expect  _ any _ of this.” She sighs.

“I’m not complaining,” Giles says. “Apart from my knees, which are going a bit numb.”

“Oh.” Willow lets him go and he smiles at her, returning her tea to her and standing stiffly to get one of his own from the kitchen. “I’m not complaining either, about you and Buffy or - or even the demons.”

“I think some complaining there is reasonable, you know,” Giles calls from the kitchen over the sound of the kettle boiling again. “...are you complaining about the liking boys and girls thing though?” The kettle whistles and Giles sighs. “Your silence is telling, Willow.”

“It would just be so much easier, though,” Willow blurts out. “If - if I could just be normal.”

The sound of pouring water in the kitchen pauses briefly, then continues. When Giles speaks, his voice is hard as ice and Willow can suddenly equate  _ Ripper  _ with their mild-mannered school librarian. “Who, exactly, said you were not normal?”

She’s not frightened, but she is unnerved and cannot help speaking. “One of the girls at school was talking about it and she said it wasn’t normal. No-one said it about me though.” Giles is silent as he fusses with the teapot and the milk. “Was she wrong though?” she says quickly. “I mean, most people just like the other gender, or - or the same gender but not - not both. I mean, you don’t, and-”

Giles tuts, interrupting her. “Small sample group and incorrect data, Willow. And you call yourself an academic.”

Willow forces her mouth closed. “...really?”

“Ah, yes.” Giles, back still turned, sounds a little awkward, but then he is having a very personal chat about his love life with a nineteen-year-old, so. “I know it’s terrible for you youths to think about such an old man as myself having relationships and the like, but… I went to an all-boys school with pretty maids and rugby players, and then Oxford with beautiful, elegant ladies and some  _ very  _ nice cricketers.”

Willow giggles and Giles returns with his tea and a sheepish smile. He settles on the footstool that matches her chair and she leans her head on his shoulder. His head rests on hers, keeping her safe.

“You really are just as normal as the rest of us, you know,” he says softly. “By which I mean, of course, you are an astonishingly bright girl, an excellent witch, a loyal friend and you fight the forces of evil on the weekends, when you aren’t averting the apocalypse.” She laughs and feels him smile against her hair. “This is Sunnydale, after all. But in this respect, you are almost boringly normal.”

“Thanks,” she whispers.

“Whenever you need me, I will be here,” he says, almost too soft to be heard, and Willow remembers the fear in his face that she might be hurt, that he hadn’t even closed the door before trying to look after her, and silently thanks her feet for knowing to carry her, sprinting through the dark night, to this man’s door. He looks up at the wall and pulls a face. “Would you like a lift to your house or to college?”

“Can I stay here?” Willow says, incredibly quietly.

“Of course,” Giles says. She can hear that he’s surprised, but also pleased; it makes his voice even warmer and richer.

By the time she’s settled into the sofa to his satisfaction, Willow has two pillows, a double duvet and can barely keep her eyes open. “Do you need anything else?” Giles says. She shakes her head, offering him a sleepy smile and yawning. His eyes are soft and something else that is happy and warm and directed at her, but her own eyes are slipping shut and she can’t figure it out. She hears Giles chuckle softly, feels soft, dry lips press against her hairline and falls asleep with a smile on her face.

* * *

Giles had got up at the wrong moment of their movie marathon and as a consequence had lost his spot in the comfiest armchair ever. The incentive of armchair alone was not enough to move sober people to face Giles’ irritation, but tonight he was allowing a controlled amount of alcohol per underage youth under his careful supervision. Xander, the one-can-wonder, had given in to tipsy temptation and stolen the seat. 

Xander stuck his tongue out at Giles’ expression of secretly-amused irritation and rolled eyes and opened his arms for Anya to crawl into his lap, pressing a kiss to her hair. Drinking had not cured him of his inability to think before speaking, so he opens his mouth and lets the first thing that comes to mind fall out.

“Brad Pitt is hot.” 

Okay, that wasn’t what he was expecting. By the looks on the others’ faces, it wasn’t what they were expecting either. The amusement dancing in Giles’ eyes suggests it may not have been a complete surprise, however.

Xander spreads his hands. “Well, he is. Look at the man. Look at his jawline.” He gestures vaguely and expansively at the TV.

“Oh, I am,” Buffy says. “I just...didn’t think you were.”

Xander shrugs. Anya pulls a face. “He’s alright. He’s no Angelina Jolie. She could do better.”

Willow nods thoughtfully. “I do like Angelina. Wait - you too?”

Anya rolls her eyes. “I spent centuries cursing men and commiserating with their lovely wives and girlfriends. Of course I like women too; men are stupid.” She cuddles closer into Xander though, tucking her head under his chin and pulling her knees up to her chest.

There is a pause as everyone considers this statement and accepts it easily. “This is a really terrible film,” Giles says eventually from where he leans on the doorjamb and sips his whiskey.

“But everyone in it is so pretty, Giles,” Xander whines. Willow drops her head over the back of the sofa to pout at him upside-down and Tara laughs, hiding her smile behind a hand.

He shakes his head, ruffling Xander’s hair and wandering back to the kitchen. “I should never have encouraged any of you.”

* * *

“I miss Faith sometimes.”

Giles looks up at Buffy from where he is carefully bandaging a cut on her ankle. She’s leaning so far back in the armchair she’s practically horizontal, eyes closed and skin mottled with bruises. He feels another stab of guilt at that.

One eye opens, narrowed at him. “Stop being guilty. It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t even involved. And don’t say you should have been.”

Obligingly he closes his mouth and offers her a mock salute before going back to his bandaging. She smiles and closes her eyes again, sighing heavily through her nose.

“It would be nice to not do this all the time, you know?” 

Giles hums in agreement. “I thought - when she first arrived - that things would be different.”

“Me too.” Buffy winces, shifting in the seat, and Giles resists the temptation to ask if he could just check her ribs. She’d be fine in the morning, she insisted -  and quite rightly, too - and he had only just been allowed to look at her ankle. “Do you think things could have been different?”

Giles ponders this for a moment. “No,” he says in the end. “Not unless a lot of things were different. Such as Faith, for instance.”

Buffy laughs, eyes still closed, and Giles smiles. Then her smile gets a little sad. “I wish they were different. I wish Faith were…less Faith-like. I might…” she trails off. Giles waits, patiently, for her to finish her thought. “I think I might have loved her, if things had been different.”

Giles looks at her, looking in this moment so fragile and young. Buffy is too bruised and hurt. None of this should ever have been hers, especially not stabbing a girl her own age, with whom she was almost in love. “I think you might be right,” he says softly, and pushes a strand of hair off her face without touching her bruised and sore skin.

“You’d better not be messing up my hair, Giles,” she says with slightly forced lightness. 

“Sorry, I didn’t realise bird’s nest was  _ in _ this year,” he says, allowing her to let the subject go.

She shrugs. “Riley likes it.”

“Riley likes  _ you _ . I don’t think your hair has much to do with it.”

Buffy smiles, sappy and soft and Giles laughs. “Yeah, he does. So maybe I don’t mind too much that things weren’t different.”

Giles reaches out and carefully places the strand of hair he had moved back on her face. Buffy giggles, cracking open an eye to see him beaming down at her. He drops down to press a feather-light kiss to her forehead. “I think things are pretty okay just the way they are.”

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative title: the coming-out couch; or, everyone in buffy is bi and giles is your dad now.


End file.
